


Calling Dust

by antagonists



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dust underfoot, dreams on his tongue, Genji revisits childhood memories and learns of Self. </p><p>Limbo has no oases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bedouin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bedouin)/nomad skin origins
> 
> first longfic in like a year, second like ever. will try to update regularly but im bad at this

 

 

 

*

 

 

Where lands had once been green, the world is now a fermenting wound of desert ghosts. It is difficult to know much past the endless horizon and the graveyards that rest below. Cities lie quietly beneath seas of sand. The dunes change restlessly, as if besotted with impermanence and her fickle guile.

 

In daylight, spirits are but a flickering reflection, dim flame against shattered glass. They are not kind; lingering ties and so much left unhealed can only lead to malice. Spirits are most ravenous when the world grows cold and dark, the moon a lonely beacon. Some of them wear the appearance of those they had consumed last—others drift about as faceless shadows with wide, sagging jaws.

 

Some will wear their fraying memories and are fraught with misshapen eyes, broken fingernails. They smile with sharp teeth that bely human visage. How sad and heartwarming: these poor ghosts missing how they had once loved the world.

 

Be wary when traveling at night. The most commonly known tactic to repel spirits is to invite them, teeth bared, unto oneself.

 

 

*

 

 

Along the western border of what used to be called the Tibetan Range, Genji staggers against a crumbling wall. After months of traveling by ship and on foot, he has long grown weary of unfamiliar places. He eyes the few people milling around him. They, too, shoulder their robes with grim faces and hard gazes. Half of the buildings are in some state of disrepair, and their shadows are oblong and eerie over the ground. It is still daylight out, but the night will fall soon. Once the last traces of sunset bleed into dusk, no one wise will be out meandering in the streets.

 

He has never been very wise, however. Tell him to avoid danger and he will mishear it as an invitation for trouble. It has always been one of his worse habits, being as single-minded as he usually is, and he hasn’t had much time to fix his personality without proper human interaction.

 

When someone bumps into him, he carefully pries the foreign hand from his belt.

 

“ _Go home, child_ ,” he says, peering out from his keffiyeh. The fabric muffles his voice and he probably sounds unclear with his crude, basic-at-best Arabic, but the child obeys and scurries back anyways. His hands must feel like ice.

 

Wide, desperate eyes. Genji has seen that look too often and in too many places. Money is not so much a useful possession than an object for bragging rights, but people have always eyed coin with zealous envy in these times. A gold coin could probably guarantee them a loaf of bread to survive another day; either that or a group of bloodthirsty thugs. Genji can’t distinguish the lesser evil between the two, honestly. (But he’s no position to judge).

 

He flexes his fingers idly, stretching the joints. The warmth of the child’s skin still lingers like the heat of a campfire on his back, enough to make his skin prickle with borderline pain, but not enough to make him cringe. With another glance at the trembling child, Genji adjusts his headwear and turns to look at the sky, hand on his dagger.

 

“ _Go home_ ,” he repeats, more clearly this time. The child may have just tried to rob him, but he doesn’t enjoy watching them flee helplessly from vicious spirits. Night is unkind to everyone, most of all to children. They have the brightest, most intact souls, and spirits always favor extinguishing the radiant. Perhaps they believe that they will be able to don the light, too.

 

He remembers being chased around as a kid, once, remembers the chilling fear in his throat and ice in his heart. Without his father’s intercepting spells, that ghost might’ve emerged wearing Genji’s faux smile with pride. He doesn’t wish these experiences upon anyone, even a starving thief.

 

The child stares at him a moment longer, nibbling at her lower lip, then dashes into an alley, barefoot and in rags. Genji sighs.

 

The streets are emptier, now, with crimson light pouring through cracks in the walls. Genji watches a mother running with her child in tow, voice frantic and worried. He can’t understand most of the words coming out of her mouth, but the meaning is clear.

 

_Night is coming. Hurry, baby, hurry, or we will not make it._

 

Genji walks down the rubble-strewn roads, feet aching in his worn boots. It has been days since he’s found rest, and longer since he’s had proper sustenance. He has half a mind to pull back the sleeves of his robe and inspect his skin, but he can already feel the tug on his mind, an insistent pull that beckons him to join the ranks of lost battleground phantoms. It is easier to ignore this sensation, now; when he’d first awoken, still bloodied from his brother’s sword, the urge to drive a knife into his eyes had been overwhelming.

 

Every house he passes is silent, blockaded with scraps of wood and metal that their residents have deemed sturdy enough. Once he reaches the outskirts of the small town, he faces the moon and inhales deeply.

 

Spirits draw closer, seeking to bite deep into his memories.

 

 

*

 

 

“You’ve arrived quite late,” the woman across from Genji frowns, speaking in accented English. “We expected you two days ago.”

 

“Your escorts never did arrive,” Genji replies. “It’s not likely they’d have gotten lost, is it? Perhaps they ran off with the down payment.”

 

His client swears, brow wrinkling.

 

“I do not hold it against you,” he reassures. “These are trying times, and I do not see a reason to deny you my services.”

 

The woman straightens, chin high. “I am Amal.”

 

“Genji.”

 

“From what I understand, you are offering to guard the perimeter for several nights.” Amal pauses, looking at him calculatingly. He wonders if she can see through his keffiyeh. “Alone.”

 

“Do you doubt my abilities?”

 

Amal waves her hand disinterestedly, rings flashing. They are rare things to see; accessories are almost sacred with how uncommon they’ve become. “You are a no-name, Genji. Emerged out nowhere and tried selling your services. Most guards come in high demand and history. What is your motive?”

 

“I am passing through the area,” he says coolly, “and will need lodgings. Other than that, I have no motives. I have also heard your last guard passed away, and you are in need of a placeholder.”

 

“Yes, to save a child,” Amal sneers, but her eyes are not angry. There is one ruby ring on her left hand that does not quite match the others she wears—a reminder of better times together. “Iekika was a fool.”

 

The sun is high in the eastern skies by the time Amal releases Genji and shows him to his quarters. The room is cramped, messy, and the bed is threadbare at best. There are spots where dust has not yet settled, places where personal touches had once been. It is a far cry from the luxuries of his past, but it is still a roof over his head, and a relatively flat surface to lie down on. He does not complain.

 

While he looks around, Amal seems to contemplate asking him where he is headed, but thinks better of it and keeps quiet. He has a feeling that she doesn’t trust him still—understandable, since his keffiyeh covers all but his eyes, and he speaks like a foreigner—and will likely have someone monitor him during the day. He doesn’t worry about it too much, though, since he usually only ventures out around sundown, and his personal business has little to no reason for importance here.

 

He looks out the barred window. Next to it lay several sun-bleached planks of wood. Futile efforts to block out spirits, he thinks drily, and from prying eyes. Rays of sunlight pierce easily through the broken glass, glinting off of dirty stains and the splintered remains of the sill.

 

Genji takes time to sharpen his daggers while he has the time. He has to take his gloves off to do so efficiently, and he glances at his skin and traces of vein for only a moment. A few days ago, his flesh had appeared solid; in the sunlight, he is nearly translucent. He does his best to ignore the sight of his skin as he drags sharp stone over sharper blade, back and forth, like the distant tides.

 

Later, around an hour before sundown, a young boy knocks on the door.

 

“ _What is your name_?” Genji asks, trying to enunciate the best he can.

 

Delighted at Genji’s attempts to speak Arabic, imperfect as they are, the boy smiles. “ _I’m Chelem! Amal asked me to fetch you_.”

 

The boy must be like a son to Amal, Genji muses. Despite the harsh desert climate and dreary landscape, Chelem’s smile is blinding and innocent. It is no small wonder that Amal is desperate for a temporary guard. These days, if someone cannot protect what they hold dear the most, their unfulfilled promises may as well serve as a beacon for eager dead.

 

“ _Amal told me my mother had to leave_ ,” Chelem tells him, bouncing on his feet. “ _I miss her, but Amal says she’s doing well, and that she will return_.”

 

Genji nods tiredly. So that’s how it is.

 

“I will be fine,” he says when Amal hesitates at her doorstep. “Chelem will see no harm tonight, nor will he for the time that I am here.”

 

“You know nothing,” Amal sniffs, but retreats back into the shabby house. The door creaks shut slowly, and he can feel her gaze on his back as he begins pacing and scanning the area. He hopes the night will be quiet, but the air is thick with longing and misery.

 

His hand is steady on his blade—it has been years since he has shaken with fear. Tonight will see nothing different.

 

 

*

 

 

Genji debates on telling Chelem the truth before he leaves. As a child, he had despised adults tiptoeing their way around him, assuming his inexperience as stupidity and naiveté. He had known for a long time the sort of business and work his father had been in; picking locks is still a favorite pastime of his, and he had always been strangely talented at deciphering his father’s terrible penmanship. He remembers borrowing his brother’s kanji dictionary for particularly hard vocabulary, remembers waking up to a smear of drool all over the pages.

 

Knowing of his father’s hand in dirty affairs hadn’t deterred his unfettered affections any. Knowing of his brother’s duty—

 

But now, ah, reminiscing will not help him. Genji realizes that Chelem would be bitter and crestfallen at the news of his dead mother.

 

Instead, he confronts Amal as he is about to leave. He faces her while tightening the belt around his robe, daggers solid against his back. “It would be best not to keep secrets from Chelem.”

 

“I am aware.” To her credit, Amal does not flinch at the accusation.

 

Genji tilts his head, considering her. “The lie will be more difficult to continue with time.”

 

“Chelem meant the word to Iekika. She would not want to burden him.”

 

“Then she would not wish for him to believe anything but the truth.”

 

He takes a step back, closer to the sunlight. One step more, and he will be out of the shade, back in the stark emptiness of daylight. His blue keffiyeh is a splash of color in the dreary aftermath of century-long wars. It sets an uneasy imbalance, one that has passersby eyeing him nervously or with a greedy glint to their gaze. Amal exhales softly, shoulders slumped, and averts her eyes. It is the look of a defeated woman. By tonight, someone will come to replace Iekika for good, and Genji will become a stranger once more.

 

“He is all I have left,” she says, somber. “I will think about it.”

 

 

*

 

 

The nights where he walks across eternities of sand and earthen stars are among the loneliest. Though he passes by the occasional spirit, their wavering voices are little more than bad memories to him.

 

Here, they speak in various tongues, coaxing, cajoling. Some of the faces he sees are empty horrors, others mimic the smiles of their last prey. The ones he finds the most unnerving, even after years, are the ones that cling to their past appearances and smile at him crookedly, as if to beguile him, tempt him. Unfazed, he swings his dagger through imaginary flesh, digs his fingers into cooling throats.

 

Without drinking, a few days more and Genji’s skin might’ve become like glass. Under the moonlight, he unwinds his headwear and blinks up at the faded stars, lips stained with silver and old scars. He holds a clear vial in one hand, stoppered with cork and a handmade charm—an art he’d never paid much attention to in the past. Ghastly smoke writhes within the crystal, pooling like spilt blood in one moment and curling like young fern in the next.

 

He watches his skin stitch together and closes his eyes, briefly overcome with memories not his own. Candlelight shadow over cabin walls, green eyes clouded with cataracts, shattered porcelain shards arranged haphazardly into a circle. Blurred photographs lean against a white candle, marred with rivulets of dried wax. Someone behind him prays in broken and hushed murmurs.

 

With a ragged breath, Genji reopens his eyes. Vertigo makes his head spin, and he finds himself laying on his back, face upturned towards the midnight sky. The taste of memories is both acrid and cathartic.

 

Once his breathing has evened and he can blink without seeing static bursts of another’s dreams, Genji crawls back onto his feet, relieved and exhausted. His only company is the moon hanging low and heavy in the skies, and even her soft light is not enough to make the burning in his throat disappear.

 

 

*

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

*

 

 

In the mountains, sand gives way to untouched fields of snow. The air is thin and crisp, like ice in Genji’s lungs. It has been a long and arduous trek towards the peaks of Nepal, and he has grown so used to desert sun and heat that the chill feels odd on his skin. The wind is a biting curiosity, sweeping over white dust to prod him through his desert robes. Mountains offer a solitude of disquieting comfort, not quite a graveyard but still no less unfamiliar.

 

The sound of snow underfoot is refreshing, dull and greyed horizons easier on the eyes than vivid and endless blue. He has seen snow before, but never in this amount. It is as though he is walking through a soft, untouchable childhood dream.

 

Perhaps when he’d been younger he might’ve complained of the cold; he’d never enjoyed the winters in his hometown. Summer had always been his favorite season with its skin-warming weather, bright colors, and the foods that come with festivities. But now he cannot spend long hours in the sunlight, fearing that he may disappear just as easily as spirits do with time. He has little left to dwell on but the dreams that plague him although he is awake, and he has not thought of much outside of immediate survival for years.

 

He takes shelter in the shadow of a fallen temple, leaning against an enormous bell split in two. It reminds him of the interludes of his childhood spent running around his hometown, chasing fireflies and diving after tadpoles. The castle he knows has not rung its bell since before he’d been born, so he is not well-acquainted with the somber swell from another temple in the distance. A lingering cry. It is a mourning call, reflecting the desolate skeleton of a temple that had surely once stood tall and mighty, housing hundreds of thousands of prayers and sacred wishes. He can imagine its splendor, almost, by thinking of the faded photographs he has seen of beautiful stone architecture. He leans his head back against a crumbling wall and pulls down the fabric covering his mouth. Clouds of white billow from his lips.

 

A concerned voice pulls him back from his thoughts. It is nearby, but far enough that Genji cannot reach the source immediately with his blade. He hastily yanks his keffiyeh back into place and is on his feet within moments. It has been a long while since he’s been taken by surprise, and he is instinctively drawn into mild suspicion, edging on jittery panic. The stranger speaks in several languages, even running through basic Arabic that Genji narrowly avoids responding to.

 

“Show yourself,” he demands, fingers wound tight around his dagger’s hilt. His lips still sting from residual cold, and he tastes blood. “I will not ask twice.”

 

To his surprise, the person in question walks into plain view without further prompting, hands raised in a placating gesture. A Nepali monk, Genji realizes, but far from the temples one would normally pray at. Even in simple garb, the monk seems to be unaffected by the cold. His eyes are kind, expression full of warmth. It is a strange sight for Genji; recently, he has not had anyone act friendly towards him without a typically selfish reason.

 

A dark square pattern is etched onto the monk’s forehead. It reminds Genji of the ink that he hides beneath his own robes—spells that he’d carved into himself to help keep the nightmares away. To help keep his feet rooted to the earth. They are not marks that he wears proudly, but the man in front of him is unashamed by his own.

 

“This temple is in ruins,” Genji continues in English, unmoving. His Arabic has its limits and while he is not embarrassed by his lack of linguistic finesse, miscommunication in chance encounters can err on the fatal side. If the ascetic cannot understand him, then Genji will have to rely on body language alone. “Should you not be at safer worship grounds?”

 

“Even old temples will listen to prayers,” the monk replies. “Meditating here is quite worthwhile.”

 

“You asked me something, before,” Genji presses, urgent. Tension tugs at his shoulders, bending his spine, and he shifts his feet into a wider stance.

 

If the monk is bothered by Genji’s obvious hostile display, he does not show it. “I asked if you were in pain. It is very unusual for someone with weak spiritual presence to wander so close to ghost territory alone, much less to these mountains.”

 

Genji bristles, feeling as though hot iron has been pressed to his skin. He blinks. In the next moment, he finds that he has moved unwittingly, dagger pressed against the monk’s throat. Habit, he supposes, picked up after having met so many ill-willed people in the desert and overseas. Patience is hard to come by when he is always searching for the next few days of his life, and he has tasted the emptiness of death before. He does not wish to do so again.

 

“I do not allow ghosts to overcome me,” he says lowly, calculating the exact location of the monk’s pulse. A fraction lower. “Nor will I allow you the opportunity.”

 

“I’ve no thoughts on rending you as some priests may to a spirit.” The ascetic is still and his breathing is even. His voice has not faltered any with Genji’s clear threat. In the past, it might’ve been difficult to believe such a kind voice could house lies, but Genji knows better now. “You are still tethered to this world in some fashion, and it would not bode well for the world’s balance if I were to forcefully cut your ties.”

 

“How do I know I can trust you?”

 

“You need not trust me now, wanderer; trust takes understanding, and understanding, time. If it will ease your soul, I do not mind if you must kill me.”

 

“I _will_ do it,” Genji mutters angrily. In response, the monk merely smiles, unresisting. The wind blows fiercely, driving chill deep into Genji’s bones. Hunger and thrist, bloody wounds, poisons; he can resist all of these easily. But this, the cold—he has always been weak to it. He realizes that he must be trembling, flinches at the gentle fingers settling over his own and snarls.

 

“In lore of the old Hausa people,” the monk murmurs, hand warm even in the frigid climate, “those dependent on consuming spirits are those who have been cursed by witches, split into two by injustice. They are often unable to find peace among others. Many are driven to madness from an eternity spent alone.”

 

“Cursed by a witch,” Genji almost snorts, thinking of his brother. “I suppose so.”

 

“I will help you, if you will allow it.” Young, earnest eyes. Genji wonders if he had once too looked like that. He pulls away, discomfited by the warmth on his swordhand, but keeps the blade close by his side. A dull red line marks tan flesh. The sight of it is disconcerting; beheading spirits doesn’t leave anything behind, and he has worn impermanence as a yoke for so long.

 

“I do not trust you,” he finally says, stepping back to give the monk some space. “And I do not intend on meeting you again.”

 

“If that is what fate wills, I will not resist.” Standing, the monk brings his palms together and bows—a parting gesture. “But I believe, dear traveler, that we may meet again.”

 

Genji watches the monk’s shadow disappear into the distance, swallowed up by the glare of snow. He stays still for a few seconds more before he sheathes his dagger hurriedly. Tugging down the cloth over his nose and mouth, he inhales sharply, ignoring the sudden chill that dries his tongue. He holds his breath until he can no longer bear the ache in his chest, then pulls the keffiyeh back into place and slumps onto the ground.

 

Stone is unforgiving on his knees. He blindly gropes for the stoppered vial hidden in his robes just to hold onto it, taking comfort in the sensation of unanswered prayers in his hand.

 

 

*

 

 

When Genji sleeps, he often sees the shadow his father’s back: large, imposing, strong and victorious above all else. He remembers the spells tattooed into his father’s skin, the blend of destruction and salvation that comes with ink and magic. He also remembers watching his brother grimace as he’d gotten his tattoos on the night he’d come of age. Irritated, bleeding lines beneath the superimposition of eager, all-consuming black. A bit of leather between his brother’s gnashing teeth, candlelight reflected over sweat and tears, broken fingernails dragging through splinters in the wooden ground. A sullen night rife with bad dreams.

 

His brother had been bedridden for days, overcome with the sudden influx of the spirits’ sad whispers. Genji couldn’t understand at the time; he could see the ghosts, but he could never comprehend what they were saying. Seeing his brother cringe from the spirits and bow under the weight of spells, Genji had grown afraid. He still wonders, to this day, how his father had stood straight-backed and proud for so long. He and his brother are weak links in the legacy; they’d shattered so easily beneath the world of spirits.

 

Genji, on the other hand, had not received his tattoos on the day he came of age. Their father suddenly passed into a fit of illness, and Genji would often see his brother returning to their shared study wearing a grim mask. His expression would remind Genji of the theatres he’d visited often as a child, the masked demons and warriors and women.

 

Before spring flowers darkened to summer greens, Genji had found himself standing before his father’s tomb, heavyhearted and listless. From the following months, he remembers only bits and pieces of his life. Most of these memories are detached, fragmented interactions with his brother. As time had passed, their crossed paths grew fewer and further in between. For every step that Genji would move closer, his brother seemed to take two away.

 

Only irate conversations. Bitter and grievous.

 

In particular, he remembers spending many moonless nights alone, watching sakura petals flutter through lamplight and to the ground. He’d crushed them thoroughly with his bare feet, angry. Dark pink stains on the soles of his feet.

 

He wakes from these memories sluggishly, numb from the cold despite the small fire before him. It has died down to a few glowing embers. He stares at the pile of ash and charcoal with bleary eyes, curling his fingers into weak fists. Genji has always been terrible at waking up quickly, though traveling has made him a lighter sleeper. He has to force himself away from the curve of the temple’s broken bell to avoid going back to sleep.

 

It is still daylight out but the skies are overcast and grave. Trees are tall black figures in the distance, like towering demons frozen amidst the snow. After a moment of stretching his stiff limbs, Genji pulls himself onto his feet, swaying slightly. Flashes of his dreams still haunt his waking moments, and he stares at the blinding white outside the temple ruins to distract himself. Afterimages burn into his eyes.

 

The walk towards the central village is peaceful, disrupted only by the wind scattering silver dust over what Genji assumes to be gravestones. Small, withered flowers lay in neat piles on ice-crusted stone slabs. In the distance, temple bells echo longingly.

  
He has heard, from other travelers in grungy, shadowy street corners, that Nepal is home to many priests. This would explain the strange lack of ghosts around the mountains. Genji is used to constant murmurs brushing past his ears, yet as he walks through the outskirts of the village, he hears no more than the sound of his own footsteps. His inked skin does not sting here, perhaps either numbed from the cold or soothed from the eerie stillness in the air.

 

To fend off occasional spirits, however, there must also be wards drawn into place. Genji mindlessly steps over a faint boundary and notices the change in the air a split second too late. He finds himself heaving for breath, frozen in place. Without his human memories and flesh, he would have been sundered violently on the spot. Though his bones feel as though they’ve been filled with lead, he stumbles back from the borderline as quickly as he is able. Static clouds his vision. Temple bells clamor loudly in his ears, as if trying to drive out his every thought.

 

“Best to be careful, here,” says the monk from before. A few paces past the weakened ward, he observes Genji for a moment before stepping out of the boundary with enviable ease.

 

“You cast the ward,” Genji accuses, still gasping on the ground. It is unfair how easily this man seems to find him.

 

“It is not my doing,” the monk frowns. “These outskirts no longer serve as a home to villagers, and this ward is one my dear brother set long ago. The effects that you feel are quite minimal, though I am sure still very painful.”

 

Kneeling, the monk sweeps his hand over the ground, revealing a dark sigil nestled within icy gravel. It seems to barely have any power left in it, and had a true ghost passed by, it would have fallen apart along with its target. Genji watches the man press his fingers into the lines, and the spell dissipates into a whorl of dust.

 

“Your brother,” Genji hisses, clutching at his chest. “He is also a priest?”

 

“Yes. My late brother had also foreseen a wanderer between two worlds. It is why I have been awaiting you for some time.” A small smile. Genji pointedly ignores it. “You need not take off your headwear if you truly are uncomfortable without it, but the air is thin here, and you do not seem to be acclimated quite yet.”

 

“You are aware ghosts are weaker in sunlight,” he mumbles, blinking away sparks of residual pain.

 

“Then you are fortunate that the clouds here are very persistent.” The monk draws closer. “May I?”

 

Genji hesitates, but knows that his fingers are shaking too much to work the fabric of his keffiyeh off efficiently. He nods slowly and keeps one trembling hand on his dagger as a warning.

 

“It will not be easy, but a spirit can be mended with time and care,” the ascetic says as he unwinds the blue fabric. He sits back once the keffiyeh has been removed, turning his gaze politely to the side. Genji still struggles for breath.

 

“You talk as though you’ve seen people like me before.”

 

“This is my name,” the monk continues lightly, unrevealingly, writing characters in the snow that Genji distantly recognizes as Pali. He’d barely paid mind to his childhood mentor’s Buddhist teachings, but enough that what he remembers drives his innermost thoughts into self-loathing. “I will not search for you if you do not wish it, but you can call for me, if you desire.”

 

Emptiness, Genji muses, is a strange name for an ascetic to have. He once more watches wordlessly as the monk walks away. When he looks down at his palm, a shimmering spell for _rest_ swirls languidly on his skin, radiating calm.

 

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zenyatta's name seems to be inspired by [this concept](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C5%9A%C5%ABnyat%C4%81)  
> it has a really pretty and dark meaning if u think about it


	3. Chapter 3

*

 

 

Genji finds that the villages here are vastly different from those he has visited in the past. The Nepali are not afraid of the night, and though the skies are dark and foreboding, the people walk alongside each other proudly. He thinks the floating lanterns quite festive, almost, and very calming. Immense buildings are gradients of solid shadow and golden stonework. It is an untouchable city, safe from what else plagues the world at night.

 

The light reminds him of the _danjiri_ festivals he’d watch during autumn, filled with warm colors and the whistled melody of wooden flute. He would often get dragged to perform misogi rites just as dawn broke the day after. These are fond—albeit reluctant—memories of his: catching fish barehanded in the icy streams, falling into the river fully-clothed and emerging to the sound of laughter, spending the next few days with an achy, stuffy nose.

 

While Genji enjoys the change and the romantic lighting throughout the torchlight-glow streets, he cannot help but feel remarkably out of place. The light is meant to drive spirits away, he knows, and the only reason he is this deep within the city is from careful, calculated steps around unmonitored corners. Earlier, he’d disabled one of the spells towards the outskirts and had felt immediately guilty about it. Though the suspended lights and chatter remind him of home, he is but a lonely stranger here.

 

He is mindful of staying close to the darker corners of intersections, knowing that he must look out of place with his foreign garb. Too far into the alleys, though, and he might waltz straight over another expulsion trap.

 

He tries not to think of how he would sneak around as a child in a similar manner, since that will bring back memories of the days he would vanish into smoke during daytime lessons. (The first few hours would be exhilarating as he ran from thundering footsteps and the angry voice of his caretaker; there had only ever been one person who could find him. On rainy days, only his brother would seek him out with an extra coat, sharing his umbrella with a begrudging, warm shoulder).

 

Drifting around quietly, Genji settles in the back of a crowd that faces a large bonfire. Firelight reflects off of the peoples’ faces, making them look ghastly with the combination of moonlight overhead. In front of the fire, a blind woman seems to be telling stories. Her eyes are white, clouded over with age and bitter memories, jaded with an edge of triumphed hardships. He cannot comprehend any of what she is narrating, but the powerful inflections of her voice enthrall him, holding him captive.

 

The crowd gasps and hums tonelessly between the storyteller’s dramatic pauses. Whatever the story is about, it must be something very touching; he notices one of the young men in the back lowering his head quietly, eyes brimming with heartfelt tears.

 

There is one pause that feels starkly different, however. Noticing the change in atmosphere, Genji forces himself to blink away his daze, finding that the blind woman seems to be glaring straight at him. He holds his breath, feeling dread wash down his spine like an unwelcome touch. In his folly, he’d nearly forgotten that those blind to the physical world are often very perceptive of the spiritual. He should have been more aware—one of his best mentors had been blind.

 

“ _Bhūta!”_ she hisses, venomous and clearly displeased. He does not know the meaning, but understands enough. Genji is not sure if he is truly fortunate that the crowd seems to think the shout is for effect, but he does not waste his chance.

 

His eyes burn as he slides away unnoticed.

 

It feels as though he has been splashed with frigid water. Now no longer distracted by the heat of huddled people and a mesmerizing voice, Genji realizes just how foolish he’d been to surround himself with a horde of unfriendly presences. It had been so easy to forget and fall into old habits; Nepal’s liveliness reminds him of how carefree he’d been before. Human. As things are now, the world is not so kind and he has lost his likeable, tangible qualities in a battle he does not wish to remember.

 

Consumed with bitterness, he navigates past several wards, crushing two with an angry counterspell of his own. He seeks out a far corner that is not well lit, looks around hastily for anyone, and seats himself on the hard ground so quickly he almost falls over. Uneven stone digs into the skin of his back, but he bears with the slight pain, almost relishing in feeling the corporeal discomfort.

 

He gazes at the moon for a long while, watches the soft gray of clouds sweep over and past the deep lull of night. The crystal vial is empty and rattles in his pocket. Genji knows he should not fall asleep like this, so unguarded and cold, but he closes his eyes anyways.

 

 

*

 

 

In the morning, Genji ignores the aching in his joints in favor of undoing his keffiyeh. The sky is dreary, weak sunlight muted from a thick layer of clouds. He is not comfortable with his face uncovered, scarred and unsightly as it is, but he will not hurt so long as the sun remains hidden. Instead, he layers the fabric of his headwear into a sash more fitting to Nepali garb. He hides his daggers inside of his robe, takes a length of fabric to wind around his forehead and cover his head.

 

It is a moment of vanity for him. Without his face covered, people will have less reason to be suspicious of him. This gesture is a small means of self-comfort in response to his experience the previous night, and he is desperate.

 

He does not know what it is that he seeks. All he knows is that he is weary, angry, and alone. Perhaps he will find something worthwhile.

 

If not, he will continue to wander his way across the land, lost.

 

Genji weaves through the same paths he’d taken yesterday, eyeing the destroyed wards with a meanly satisfied glint as he passes them. Where the bonfire had been, there is now but a pile of blackened wood and ash, not yet cleared out. The town is still quiet, slow and sleepy as dawn stretches her warm fingers over the horizon, shrouded in fog. He is grateful that the clouds are so stubborn.

 

A nearby bakery is open, warm and bright and smelling strongly of spices. He watches a young girl purchase a loaf of bread and a flask of hot drink, chattering excitedly with the elderly beside her. She drops a few copper coin into the clerk’s hand and waves as she dashes away. Impulse overcomes him, and Genji finds himself standing in line before he fully realizes what he has done. No one seems to think him out of place, though so he holds his ground nervously and fingers his coin pouch.

 

In the past, he might have tried to strike conversation with others despite the language barriers. Now, he merely waits sullenly as a pit of trepidation yawns wide in his stomach, staring at the ground. He worries that passersby will stare at the scars lining his face, the jagged marks along his jaw.

 

How he misses his unblemished skin.

 

He picks one loaf off one of the stands, points to one of the flasks with warm drinks. Rather than bother with counting out copper coin, Genji drops a gold piece into the clerk’s hand and ignores her wide eyes. He walks away briskly before she can offer him change, and hears her yell something at his retreating back—a word for gratefulness. In his arms, the bundle of bread and drink is so _warm_ , smells similar to what his mother would occasionally bake. His family had never been fond of food outside of traditional cuisine, but Genji’s complaints had prompted an assortment of culinary experiments.

 

He is almost giddy with happiness, right up until he remembers that he has to be careful for wards. He nearly runs into a few as he rushes out of the town’s center, breathing hard from the exertion of running. Genji knows not why he is in such a rush for privacy to dine; he hasn’t needed physical food or drink ever since—

 

Since—

 

He slows as he passes the last house, the novelty of his compulsive purchase wearing off alarmingly fast. Once he reaches an empty stretch of snowy ground, he sits heavily and stares down at the small bundle in his arms, numb. He recalls the time he’d tried eating his favorite _shouyu_ ramen and how his throat had burned, how his stomach had rejected the meal. Thinks back to freer times and two-in-the-morning excursions, how he’d used to order seconds and thirds, barely making his way through a forth bowl.

 

 _“Don’t waste your food_ ,” his brother would say, exasperated yet fond. But Genji is loath to obey whatever advice his brother has to say now, so he lifts his arm to throw the bread and drink away.

 

He stops, though. His hand still feels warm, and he doesn’t want to relinquish that sensation so quickly.

 

Hesitantly, Genji unwraps the bundle and tears off a small chunk of bread. In the cold air, the hot drink releases curls of steam. He takes a bite of the bread, sips at what he recognizes as milo, and tries to hold back his tears. Flavor is strong on his tongue, reminds him of lunchtime with his friends and dinner with his family. The snow-haloed peaks in the distance grow vague, blurring into the skies and ground.

 

To muffle his sobs, he stuffs more of the bread into his mouth. The milo burns his tongue when he tries to drink it too fast, but he doesn’t care for the pain.

 

He regrets not being able to control his whims, later, when bile sears his throat and leaves his teeth feeling gritty and unclean. It is an error Genji has wholly tried to avoid in all circumstances; the first time he’d tried to eat after _then_ had been traumatizing enough, and repeating the experience just makes all his unwanted memories return as a muddy flood. He wipes at his mouth tiredly, turning his eyes away from the mess on the ground, and sits back to stare blankly upwards. The temple bells toll.

 

 _“This is my name_.” The monk had said. Genji visualizes the gentle strokes in powdered snow, slowing his breathing to a calmer pace.

 

He refrains from kicking at the remainder of his irrational purchase crossly once he stands. Unease drapes over his shoulders as he walks away decisively, treading where his previous footsteps have disappeared beneath storm.

 

 

*

 

 

Genji finds the monk meditating at the temple ruins they’d first encountered each other, sitting atop a cracked altar. His eyes are shut, chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. He looks somewhat frail like this, thin fingers held together lightly—alone in the midst of fallen stone and skeletal remains. Had Genji not known better, he might have mistaken the man as a statue.

 

“You seem troubled, weary wanderer.” The monk opens his eyes, otherwise unmoving, and smiles softly. “I heard the villagers chattering about an evil spirit and presumed they were speaking ill of you. How are you feeling?”

 

“I am unharmed,” Genji responds stiffly. Now that he is actually here, he doesn’t know what to do.

 

“Physically, yes, you appear unharmed.” The monk uncrosses his legs, dropping to the ground with a practiced grace. Genji realizes that his face is still uncovered and keeps his gaze glued resolutely to the ground. “Otherwise, how are you feeling? Your core seems disturbed, faint.”

 

“I am,” He pauses to reconsider his word choice, “managing.”

 

“Would you like to meditate with me?”

 

“I have never… built the habit,” he admits haltingly. “It is something my brother—” _always tried to drag me into. He would call me impatient and undisciplined._

 

Genji bites back the rest of the sentence, unwilling to reveal so much in so little time. They are still strangers, and he is but an existence strung to earth with most unsweet, saddening memories. It would be so easy to let his anguish spill forth, but he has always hated feeling vulnerable. This monk named after emptiness seems to set his mind into false security much too easily. Whether it is because the ascetic exudes tranquility or because Genji has longed for stability for so long, he is not sure. Perhaps it is both.

 

“You need not partake in anything you find uncomfortable.” Nodding, the monk bows slightly. “I believe I should introduce myself properly, as you have only seen my name in script.

 

“I am Zenyatta,” he continues. “In the past, I was a priest affiliated with the temples here, but no longer.”

 

“Why?” Genji asks.

 

Zenyatta tilts his head, pleased at Genji’s curiosity. “I merely did not agree with all of their doctrines. They believe the world of humans and spirits to be separate entities. I, however, believe that they are tied together in many places; it is why you are able to walk the earth, despite the many wounds you have suffered.”

 

He does his best not to flinch. “My name is Genji,” he says quietly. “I have wandered many a place and found no place to call home.”

 

“I cannot guarantee that this will be the place you call a home,” Zenyatta replies, “but I hope I will be able to assist you in your journey.”

 

His voice is not pitying. Genji exhales shakily and takes a step closer, head still bowed.

 

“I would like,” he murmurs, “to try meditating.”

 

“Wonderful! It is not an easy practice, but it may help you in regaining a sense of balance.” Zenyatta clambers back onto the stone altar, seeming mildly excited to have someone to share his experiences with. He seats himself on the left, leaving ample room for Genji to sit and still maintain space in between them.

 

“You mentioned a late brother,” Genji says carefully, crossing his legs in imitation.

 

Serene, eyes already closed, Zenyatta hums placidly. “His departure was not painless. On the night of a full moon, a witch wielding malicious ghosts caught him unawares. We could not find him for days.”

 

“I am—sorry for your loss.” Genji mumbles. He feels somewhat ashamed of himself for being so consumed with anger and belligerence. Though he’d shared many tender moments with his brother, he finds it difficult to cherish them now. It seems impossible to accept what has become of himself, a futile effort to reconcile. “I did not mean to bring up painful memories.”

 

“There are things which cannot be undone or changed with time.” The monk replies pleasantly. “I have accepted his passing and bear the woman no ill will.”

 

Genji squeezes his eyes shut, still overcome with the hatred and envy that bursts before his eyelids.

 

“Let us begin with simple breathing exercises. Count to eight as you breathe in, and eight as you breathe out. Take all the time you need.”

 

 

*

 

 

He wakes suddenly, skin feeling clammy and cold even with his robe wrapped snugly around him. Night fades to day in the distance, ceding its dark hold of the skies to allow dawn’s watercolors of ruddy pinks and pastel rose. Genji subconsciously rubs at his eyes, notices that his keffiyeh isn’t covering his face, and scrambles to search for it.

 

After a brief moment of panic, he realizes that he still has it tied around his waist and hurriedly winds it around his head. He breathes easier only when he finishes adjusting it. He’d forgotten that he had been trying to keep it off as he slept to make it easier to face Zenyatta when they meet, and it does not seem to be helping much. After having walked into the village with his face uncovered, he has only become so much more self-conscious of how he appears.

 

He perches himself at the edge of a jutting rock, peering down from the mountains into the colorful wilderness below. Covering portions of greenery are thick shelves of clouds, looking like a swirling ocean of fog parted to reveal a better world below.

 

It is not quite so colorful outside the mountain villages, with wind scattering silvery dust over bleak paths and to cloud-wreathed peaks. The colors here are hewn in a mosaic across the sky, scattered in shards of golden light that darken to broodier, opaque moods once the sun begins to crush into a fiery glow over the horizon. In the crumbling temple Genji takes shelter in, the only hue he sees is in the faded threads of large yellow draperies fallen to the ground. He has stacked sturdier rocks and laid the heavy fabric over in efforts of a poorly fashioned tent, but it is better than sleeping exposed. Other than these—only the blue of his keffiyeh, and the humble, earthen dye of Zenyatta’s robes.

 

The monk’s clothes are not a jarring contrast, like some of the fields of flowers Genji spots below. Genji will glance at the simple garbs without much thought, but he will glimpse an edge of shocking blue in his peripheral, and will instantaneously remember spells of the same bright cast. He knows not why he still dons his headwear when it brings forth such unpleasant memories; perhaps he does not wish to forget his pain, does not want to forgive so easily.

 

Before he can lapse into an episode of moody cognizance, he forces himself to take several breaths. Breaths deep enough to make his chest and ribs ache. The slight pain grounds him, and he opens his eyes to better clarity and state of mind. Sparks flicker in his vision.

 

He has gotten better about that, at least—breathing the thin air up here.

 

“Genji,” Zenyatta greets from a distance, footfalls quiet as he approaches the temple’s shadow. “I am glad you are awake.”

 

“Would you have woken me if I wasn’t?”

 

“I would have waited.” Zenyatta’s smile is nothing but patient. “Forcing you into a pace not your own will only disrupt your balance. Did you find the meditation yesterday helpful in any manner?”

 

He thinks back, still surprised he hadn’t fallen asleep as he might have some years prior. It had been a simpler process with the monk’s calm voice instructing him, calming, almost, with the subtle hush of wind through the temple’s shattered windows. Meditating still seems to bring back many of his more trouble thoughts, however, so it hadn’t been a complete success.

 

At Genji’s words, Zenyatta hums thoughtfully. “Troubles cannot be won over all at once. If you would like, we could meditate some more.”

  
“It is early,” Genji says uneasily. “What of your meals?”

 

The monk is pleasantly surprised, Genji notes. “I have eaten breakfast. Fasting for a short while does not bother me, but I thank you for your kind concern.”

 

There is a slight pause, as if Zenyatta is hesitating on asking him personal questions.

 

“I do not consume physical food or drink,” Genji confirms. The truth weighs heavily on his shoulders and his company doesn’t seem to be bothered in the least. It is a small comfort, but still better than nothing. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; relief, he finds, is a bit bewildering, but not unwelcome.

 

He waits until Zenyatta has seated himself, taking his place quietly and mirroring the monk’s pose. In all honesty, he still feels a bit ridiculous sitting this way, since he’s accustomed to traditional _seiza_ from his homeland. He has lounged about cross-legged on many occasions, but never for something serious like meditation. Genji tries not to be bitter as he thinks about how things have changed; the purpose of relaxing and calming his mind is for a greater purpose than wishful thinking and reminiscence. He doesn’t want to feel lost anymore.

 

The monk guides him through deep breathing exercises once again. It is easier to fall into a mild trance this time, Genji thinks. Almost too easy, and he realizes that he is falling onto his side only when Zenyatta calls his name worriedly.

 

He blinks away the stars in his vision, cradling his head with his palm. There is an insistent ringing in his ear.

 

“Genji,” Zenyatta whispers, calm but no less upset. “Your skin.”

 

He raises one hand towards the light filtering in through the window, discovering that he is indeed, very transparent. Almost like stained glass, like he had been years ago before he’d thrown himself into the greedy maw of self-deprecation and denial. Vertigo is a heavy weight in his skull.

 

“Ah,” is all that leaves his mouth. He had been putting off searching for ghosts for as long as possible, but perhaps for too long.

 

“How long has it been?” The monk reaches out, then pulls his hand back.

 

“I don’t remember,” Genji says. He knows that the crystal vial has been empty for a few days, and he has never gone more than a fortnight without growing excessively dizzy and weak to sunlight.

 

“Depriving oneself of a necessity, as undesirable it may be, will only cause you pain, dear wanderer.” Zenyatta’s words are kind, soothing, but his eyes are incredibly sad; he is genuinely worried for Genji. “Will you be able to last until nightfall?”

 

“If I sleep,” he slurs, stumbling off the altar and towards his crude shelter, “I will. Not the first time.”

 

“I shall return at sundown,” Zenyatta says. “Until then, please rest. Be well.”

 

Genji barely hears Zenyatta leave as he collapses beneath the shade the old draperies provide. There is something like a soft chant echoing through the ruins, a prayer. He turns his head away from the day and closes his eyes, shivering.

 

 

*


	4. Chapter 4

 

**

 

 

Outside the grounds of Shimada Castle, the shrines of Hanamura are far less impressive—somewhat quaint, a little bit lonely. They do not receive as many lavish gifts as the main shrine situated near the castle gates. There are, in some cases, shrines that are torn down, reborn as a towering buildings of steel and glass and marble floors. Others see the occasional yearly visitor, perhaps. Otherwise a deep silence settles over old wood and chipped stone.

 

On a particularly bleak and gloomy day, Genji sneaks away from his history lessons, disappearing with a cackle into a plume of dark smoke. He clambers over the castle walls, nearly slipping on slick tile. The echoes of his teacher’s angry voice are forgotten quickly as he scrambles onto his feet and dusts the dirt off his legs. He surveys his surroundings carefully, hoping not to catch the eye of guards he knows patrol this area. Luckily he’s learned their schedules and routes by now, since he tends to grow bored during lessons, and pretending his instructor’s voice is a series of squawks or honks can only entertain him for so long.

 

Normally at this time of day, the sun would be bright. Scorching, almost, if it were summertime and he weren’t used to it.

 

When he looks past the faded rooftops of the town, though, grey clouds are heavy and brooding on the horizon. It is as though the clouds are a dreary blanket meant to hide away the blue skies.

 

He slips into the streets, pockets jangling with the change he’d nabbed from Hanzo’s money drawer. Just a little bit—enough to buy him maybe one or two bowls of udon and a few snacks. His brother might not notice for weeks since all he does these days is bury his face into scripts and spells. Genji doesn’t understand it or like it. His brother hasn’t thought of venturing outside the castle for a while now, claiming he’s busy with studies. (But they’re still children, so they shouldn’t have to worry about that, right?)

 

Since the storeowner might call his father about his whereabouts, Genji decides to forgo the udon for now.

 

He ventures towards the emptier streets, staring at the variety of dirt-smeared, dusty neon signs that look all but eye-catching in the daylight. It is habitual for Genji to navigate mindlessly through the web of alleys, sidestepping around corners and climbing over walls to reach the edges of the town. Here, he has found, is a numbing sort of peace. It is different from the kind that his father tries to force upon him during meditation sessions, less kind than the lull of his mother brushing his hair.

 

Empty, to some degree.

 

The rain starts quietly, a silver drizzle that makes him shiver in the autumn chill. He regrets his thin clothing.

 

Ducking his head, he walks past a creaky wooden gate, feet crunching over brittle leaf and branches. There are faded characters inscribed into the stone torii, but he is unable to decipher them past the age and overlay of moss. The rain falls harder. He walks further into the copse of trees.

 

Genji realizes that he probably shouldn’t venture too far into these woods; navigating Hanamura’s streets is a completely different challenge than its surrounding forests. He looks at the opening behind him, where the rain is a blurry rush. Beneath the canopies, at least, he will not get completely soaked.

 

“Have you come to pray, boy?” Someone steps out from the trees, and Genji is so startled that he lets out a squawk as he scrambles backwards. The person, an old woman, laughs harshly at his reaction.

 

“Who are you?” he demands, dearly wishing that his fear wouldn’t be so obvious. The woman in front of him has sallow, wrinkled skin and long hair that reminds him of burnt, ashy straw. Her eyes are startling clear, even through the clouded chill that blinds her.

 

The woman laughs again. _A hag,_ he thinks despite himself.

 

“No one comes by this shrine anymore,” she says, “so you must be a lost little boy. What a pity.”

 

“I’m not lost.” He argues. “It’s raining. I don’t have an umbrella.”

 

Turning, wobbling even with the support of her cane, the woman wheezes another laugh. “Like I said, boy: no one comes to this shrine anymore.”

 

He eyes his surroundings more carefully, now. The rain is white noise in the background. Over it—eerie quiet, as though every living creature around them has decided to collectively hold their breaths. Past the woman’s hunched, bony back, he spots the old remains of what appears to have been a small shrine. Atop the altar lay withered flowers, and next to them, a porcelain flask of sake. He can smell the stench of alcohol through the musk of storm. Something about the quiet and the stranger’s toothy, yellow grin has him panicking.

 

Her skin is pale, almost disgustingly pale, mottled with spots. Genji flinches when the hag turns his way again. He knows that she cannot truly see him, but he suddenly remembers his spells instructor’s lesson on the blind and the deaf. What they do not see or hear in the physical world, they perceive a reflection from the world opposite of them.

 

“Such a pretty little sparrow you are,” she croons, stepping closer. He takes a step back, snapping a branch beneath his foot. The hag makes no noise as she glides over the ground. “Do you want to know why no one visits this shrine anymore?”

 

“No, no. I—I’m going home. Sorry.”

 

“Oh, but I im _plore_ you to stay.” The hag smiles, gnarled nails seeming like claws on Genji’s wrist.  “You would do so well here.”

 

Frozen in place, Genji stares at her expressionless eyes. Her skin seems nearly transparent. She waggles her tongue between her rotten teeth, and he holds back the urge to vomit. He knows what she plans to do, and his imagination leaves him floundering for a moment of rationality to stabilize himself, to think of some sort of warding spell. It does not come. Genji feels as though he may drown in the stifling quietude. Shadows stretch into shapes, as though manipulated by a puppet show that he cannot see.

 

In a sudden rush of noise, his brother stomps through the clearing. Genji hears the rain clearly now: a torrential pour that sounds like it will turn to hail at any moment. The fingers around his arm loosen. He gasps for breath.

 

“Brother,” he whispers.

 

Behind Hanzo stands their father, a towering, impassive figure. The hag immediately shies from his presence, eyes wide in both awe and disgust. His father’s eyes seem a bit cruel. It might be the lack of lighting that makes his stare appear flat and harsh. He has seen that look from his father, before, when he’d banished an errant fortuneteller from the castle grounds. It is not a memory he likes to dwell on—not with the echoes of steel and the stench of burning hair.

 

“C’mere,” Hanzo says, looking everything like the soft older brother who comforts him after nightmares, and Genji trips in his haste to hug him as their father utters some sort of spell. There is a terrible riving noise. Gurgled laughter, as if leaking from a slit throat. Genji presses his face into the rough fabric of Hanzo’s damp haori and shakes.

 

He can’t bring himself to eat the steaming bowl of his favorite tanuki udon set in front of him after they walk back. Though he’d only caught a glimpse of the witch’s corpse, the memory of her foggy eyes haunt him still. Hanzo wraps his haori around Genji’s shoulders as a means of comfort, and Genji draws it tighter around himself, makes himself smaller. The world seems to press in around him from all angles and he doesn’t like it.

 

“Genji,” his father tells him once they are within the safety of the castle walls. Huddled inside layers of blankets and curled over his futon, Genji stares at the tatami and counts the grain. “Do you know what you encountered today?”

 

“A witch,” he answers softly, feeling ashamed though his father has not expressed any anger at his disobedience.

 

“Your instructor grew worried when you didn’t return after the rain began to worsen. Your brother was very troubled, as was I.” Gently, his father brushes stray hair from Genji’s eyes. Genji cannot see his father’s face from this angle; the darkness is too deep, the dim lamplight in the back making his father seem a simple, menacing shadow. He closes his eyes, feels the burn of hot tears down his cheeks,

  
“I’m sorry.”

 

His father leaves after half an hour to attend to business, keeping the lamp on.

 

Genji sleeps uneasily that night, wracked with memories of cold rain and autumn leaves underfoot.

 

 

**

 

 

He wakes to the hush that overtakes horizons at dusk. He’s tired, hears voices of his discarded life past the numbing fog in his mind. It is difficult to sit up and peer at his fading skin, even harder to look away and not dig fingernails into his forearms. He closes his eyes briefly and forces himself to stand, trying to think of a good reason not to lay back down and disappear into the night. Forever. It might even be nice.

 

When he emerges from the shoddy tent he’s built, Zenyatta is there to greet him. A few kind words here and there that he doesn’t really pay much mind to, some concern that he’d be more attentive to if the world weren’t so goddamn _dizzying_. He’s more mindful about keeping his face covered, positioning his body in ways that bare skin won’t show. He will have to wander a fair bit down the mountains, where wards are all but nonexistent and unmarked graves are still nests of unquenched longing. It is easy for him to find locations where they swarm.

 

Genji loathes the way his throat burns.

 

“I do not know if you need this,” Zenyatta says calmly, offering a small talisman with both hands. It is similar to the charms Genji has seen before: a carefully carved wooden crest on red string, glowing with ink and magic. “But please, consider taking it. It contains a spell meant for mental balance, used often by young monks-in-training for concentration.”

 

He hesitates, eyeing Zenyatta’s expression. Again, no pity. There’s nothing but boundless understanding. He nods, grateful that the monk merely sets it on the ground for him to retrieve at his own leisure. The wood clicks against the stone, like the sound of geta down pebbled streets filled with fluttering sakura, the soft clatter of stick incense falling into place. He inhales sharply at the sound.

 

Zenyatta takes his leave, perching himself on the altar to meditate while Genji ventures down the mountains.

 

The way Zenyatta continues to visit the empty, abandoned temple reminds Genji of the decrepit shrine in Hanamura. He isn’t clueless as to why he’d dreamed of it in particular, knows that he is a sad parallel to the witch. The only perceivable difference is that he collects spirits and memories to remain tethered to the living world. The knowledge of this makes him incredibly bitter. In the past, he might have considered himself a better man than what he considered to be low lives, but now he is no different from them.

 

Retribution, he supposes, dealt from his dear brother’s ruthless hand. It’s hard to say who between the two of them is more misled.

 

He stumbles through the snowy passes, charm clutched in hand, unbothered by the chill since corporeal pain always seems to grow vaguer the weaker his connection to the earth is. In the past, he might’ve looked back to see if he were leaving footprints in the snow, full of childish wonder. Now he fears that he may not see anything there, and the thought of losing his footing terrifies him.

 

The sanded edges of the talisman dig into his palm. Pain is a distant thing.

 

By the time he spots the ghostly trails of a spirit, the moon is directly overhead, giving the snow an appearance of a glittering silver sandbed, the night sky as the deep oceans. He feels as though he’s walking through water anyways, with how heavy his body feels. Drawing his blade is takes more effort than it should. The night is quiet, eerie, peaceful—enough to make him want to close his eyes and let the last of him vanish into dust.

 

The first spirit he fells is that of a young boy. His hands are trembling so much that the cut is unclean. Had there been real flesh and blood, Genji imagines that the boy’s head would dangle from his neck like a morbid pendulum, swinging by torn muscle. Tongue hanging, eyes white and wide.

 

Instead, the boy fades away. Memories sink like feathers into Genji’s awaiting hands, and he tips his head back and drinks.

 

They are like ice on his tongue.

 

With every spirit he draws in, Genji finds it harder to keep grasp on his own thoughts. It is a constant battle of blinking away the last moments of someone’s life, of thinking to his own hidden wounds to keep from being overwhelmed. Every second feels like years. Although he knows that he is heaving for breath, he cannot hear anything.

 

His brother had warned him, once, about consuming ghosts.

 

“ _Many have attempted to gain spiritual prowess by forcing ghosts upon themselves_.” He’d frowned—ever the serious, straight-minded warrior. His clothing would always be a reflection of his rigid dogma. Even in the summer, when Genji would strip off his yukata in favor of rolling around mostly naked, his brother would sit, expression unloving as he pored over studies. He’d ignore Genji’s complaints of the weather and only reply on occasion. Even then, his mind had been in an entirely different world. “ _They go mad if they are unable to overcome them. It is forbidden practice_.”

 

And Genji, in his naivety, had simply snorted, blowing bubbles into his melted smoothie: “ _Who would willingly torture themselves like that for such a simple thing?_ ”

 

Hours later, he falls to his knees, breathing hard. He closes his eyes to see flashes of a house in flames. There is a girl who’d suffocated in the cold darkness of a blizzard, an elderly man crushed beneath a falling tree. A woman weeping alone, tears dropping onto still-warm skin. These memories are painful, but they are not unbearable.

 

The unbearable ones are those with cruel grins, the ones with lasting aches from lingering bruises and false promises. Slow deaths from poison and knife-like words. They remind him of a spring night, a full moon, twisting sheets of scales and earthshattering roars. The spirits are angry, untamed and without the blessing of prayer. The world has not shown them kindness, and they remain as vagrant phantoms of spite and want.

 

In the folds of his robes, the vial’s surface frosts over with the cold. Restless fogs writhes within gleaming crystal. He sheathes his dagger, polished steel scraping loudly over the fragile murmurs of a grave.

 

Genji trudges back slowly. He nearly trips face first into a wall, the bruising ache in his shoulder a palpable pain. Back against the temple, Genji lets himself slide down, heels scraping over ice. The moon hides behind immense gray tapestries, leaving fields of snow a dark meadow of deep mauve. Stars have begun to lose brilliance in the lightening sky. Later, he knows that dawn will bleed pale, rosy hues, as if in imitation of the faded gold tapestries in the ruins. For now, he revels in the discord hanging between the fringes of quiet hours before daylight. He has found that the tranquility in solitude is more than just catharsis.

 

He still has the talisman gripped within in his fingers, calming, and above all, solid. Genji feels as though his hand might be permanently frozen into that position with how dearly he’d held onto it during fits of nightmares. He can no longer see the glitter of snow through his skin. The thought is only somewhat comforting; had he been given the choice, he wouldn’t want to worry over it at all.

 

Once his legs stop feeling like they’ll melt from exhaustion and his vision doesn’t flicker with sparks, Genji pulls himself back up. Zenyatta is still waiting for him, soundless and still in the throes of meditation. Only when he stands in front of the altar does the monk open his eyes. Genji has never initiated eye contact until now, and he notices the richness of Zenyatta’s gaze: dark, darker, as though he is peering into an insatiable void.

 

“You have returned safely,” Zenyatta says, uncrossing his legs. Genji watches him hop down from his perch to keep a level conversation. Small gestures to treat him as an equal. He wonders at the genuineness of this behavior, still, so quick to doubt despite it all.

  
“You’ve been meditating all this time,” Genji returns, deflecting. He is still unused to concern directed his way; it is habit to interpret it as pity, anything other than well-meaning intention. “It is nearly dawn.”

 

“One must always be patient.”

 

The ascetic’s smile is distracting in this light, a flash of silver in the shadows. Genji averts his eyes, glad that he’d at least had the mind to wrap his keffiyeh around his head before returning.

 

“Are you sated?”

 

 _Sated_. As if he’d enjoyed any moment of it. Genji tenses, immediately defensive and angry. He bristles.

 

“I do not take pleasure in consuming spirits.”

 

“I apologize. Then,” Zenyatta amends, “are you feeling less unwell?”

 

“Better,” he concedes after a few seconds of tension.

 

“If you would like me to leave, you need only tell me so.” The monk tilts his head. In the pre-dawn glow, the light in his eyes seems oddly flat, though Genji knows them to be compassionate.

 

“You do not require sleep?”

 

A small nod. Zenyatta keeps his hands still and in plain sight. “I have practiced years of meditation and prayer. Sleep is a less important matter, though still a necessity. If you wish for company, then it can wait.”

 

There is ice in the cracks of the temple floor. Genji idly taps his heel over them, contemplative. If he dismisses the monk, then he will see him again at a later time. He will have hours to himself, empty time where his mind will replay the night against his will, over and over, until he is sick of fermenting in his own thoughts. He will not be able to rest; sleep has always evaded him on nights like these, insomnia shooing dreams away like a greedy, self-declared ally.

 

“I will collect wood for a fire and return shortly.” He decides. “You will tell me how you made your talisman.”

 

Something simple, something that he can understand. Magic in this expertise is something that Genji is familiar with. The subject isn’t the most interesting, but it’ll have to do.

 

“I shall wait here,” Zenyatta says.

 

Genji turns and heads towards the copse of brittle trees nearby. Tonight, he does not care for suffering alone and in the cold.

 

 

*

 

 

Over the course of a few days, Genji has become slightly better with casting distressing memories away. Perhaps not in waking moments, but in meditation, he has found a well of peace and self-reflection. He does not understand, however, how one could meditate for so long without growing weary, or at the very least mildly distracted.

 

He had thought himself more tolerant than before, but learns that his old habits have not disappeared entirely. As a child, he had having nothing to do for extended periods of time, and these habits have carried over even through all his experiences. It is frustrating, how a seemingly easy concept almost mocks his convoluted attempts. His brother had made mediation seem so simple and boring, and yet Genji cannot sit still to ruminate for more than an hour without growing impatient and anxious.

 

“You are quite harsh on yourself,” Zenyatta muses, cross-legged in front of the small campfire Genji has lit. He’s picked up on basic survival from his travels, at least, though those are less of accomplishments and more of fundamentals.

 

He refrains from jabbing the charcoal with the branch in his hand. Rather than physically relieving his anger, Genji sighs and tosses the stick in, watches it slowly blacken and glow within the flame’s eager maw. It is strangely satisfying to watch it burn.

 

“I am not good with self-reflection,” he says. “I never have been.”

 

“It is a practice that requires a great deal of training and dedication.” Zenyatta folds his hands, fingers thin and bony. “You have made marvelous progress. Please, do not be disheartened.”

 

Distantly, Genji thinks that he would be able to break those fingers so easily. He has done worse, before, in his reckless days. He’d always been the troublesome child, often biting off more than he could chew. It has only been a couple years at most, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago. He wonders if he perceives time differently than he did in the past.

 

Wonders if his brother would age and pass while he remains incomplete, but unchanging, eternal.

 

“My brother was good at it.” He closes his eyes, feeling Zenyatta’s curious gaze on him. “He gave up trying to learn, eventually, since I would cause a fuss.”

 

“He seems to be a… sour subject for you.”

 

“Sour.” Genji scoffs lightly. “Yes, I suppose so.”

 

“Your soul is burdened heavily with rage and unresolved endings.” Zenyatta notes, treading lightly, but with enough weight that Genji eyes him warily. “I know not what happened, but I believe your suffering stems from hurt left unchecked.”

 

Genji clenches his jaw, tastes the remnants of last night’s acrid memories in the back of his throat. Like sake, almost, but without the pleasant buzz, and more with the unpleasant morning-after effects. “I do not know if I could ever forgive him.”

 

“Forgiveness is certainly not easy.” In the firelight, Zenyatta’s skin takes on a warm color. His robes are ragged at the edges, as if he has worn them diligently for years, cleaning them thoroughly when needed. Genji thinks his own attire must be no better; after leaving Hanamura, luxury is but a long forgotten friend. He looks down at his own skin—pale, even with the orange bloom from the fire. His brother must still have his healthy tan, skin unblemished save for a few childhood scars and the family crest woven into the spells down his arm.

 

Unpleasant.

 

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

 

“I apologize.” Zenyatta replies easily, sincere.

 

Genji stews quietly, fidgeting. He reaches for the crystal vial and holds onto it tightly. It is frigid in his hand, like always, and he refuses to let go even when his hand grows numb with cold.

 

 

*


End file.
